


The Modern Butler

by sunlitroses



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Family, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Gen, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:09:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26671936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunlitroses/pseuds/sunlitroses
Summary: The art of managing a 21st century household requires training and practice.Particularly a 21st century household comprised of a team of vigilantes, an ever-expanding menagerie of pets, a shortage of staff, an upcoming gala, and one overworked butler.At the end of the day a family are those who have your back - but is it too much to ask that they also respect your tea stores?
Comments: 11
Kudos: 37
Collections: Batfam Big Bang 2020





	The Modern Butler

**Author's Note:**

> This is an entry for the BatFam Big Bang 2020 and was beta’d by the awesome combined talents of @dariadraws, @kuraness, and @rivermouse-sam - thank you so much, you polished it until it gleamed! (All remaining mistakes are mine, because I am something of a disaster.)
> 
> I was also incredibly fortunate to have three (3!) artists create some amazing pieces for this work: @bisexualoftheblade, @blueghostdraws, and @houser-of-stories. Check out their absolutely wonderful work!
> 
> Portions in italics taken from the website of The International Butler Academy, with sincere apologies. Their curriculum list was never intended for these purposes, but was too perfect to be ignored.

_Butlers and house managers in today's residential market must understand the skill set of each staff member in the residence to facilitate superior management of their staff. They are responsible for the rest of the staff, and possibly the yacht, the jet, and other properties. They will be the estate or house manager, sometimes the chauffeur and at times even the housekeeper, handyman, accountant, gardener, etc. Whatever the role, they must do it with style and grace._

_The art of managing a 21st century household requires training and practice._

* * *

**i. Staff Management: 9 Weeks Out**

_Includes interviewing skills, hiring and firing, employee handbooks and house rules, human resources and personnel issues, staff communications, boundaries, time management._

Alfred had reservations about Mr. Lionel Harding from his first introduction to the manor. It was to be expected that not everyone should be accustomed to the mansions and the opulence that the rich took for granted, but gawking and peering through opened doors as they traversed the hallway to the back parlor was simply gauche. Still, the interview was for help in the kitchen during the gala, and there would be no one for him to offend with his staring or questions regarding the relative price points of various paintings while working in the back.

Stifling a sigh, he ushered the nervously grinning Mr. Harding into the room. Interviews for extra staff for the upcoming gala was not a task that should be on his already teetering plate, but ever since the incident with Dick, three misplaced Bat-grenades, and the pastry table, his former second in command was taking an extended sabbatical. Alfred was beginning to suspect that it was not a sabbatical from which Mr. Dremont intended to return. It was causing numerous inconveniences, of which Mr. Harding was only the latest.

“Please be seated,” Alfred nodded towards the straight-backed visitors chair that Mr. Harding was hovering over and rounded the low table to sink into his own seat. “Tell me, Mr. Harding,” he began, trying to ease the man into conversation, “how did you come to hear about this position?”

“Um, the staffing agency?” the man raised a hand as though to run it over his head, seemed to remember at the last moment that the amount of gel in it would make that action inadvisable, and awkwardly switched to rubbing his ear. “They said you needed some help for some party?”

“This is Hereford Staffing, correct?” Alfred confirmed, mainly to fill in the time as he watched the man eye the closed, glass-fronted case of plate standing between the two open windows.

“Yeah, that’s them,” he agreed, attention diverted back to Alfred.

“Have you much experience working in the kitchens?” he continued, determined to at least see the list of questions through.

“I guess I know my way around a stove, I haven’t starved yet,” his grin faded under Alfred’s unimpressed stare. This was not surprising, as Alfred had perfected said stare upon a long succession of children attempting to hide yet another chandelier damaged by acrobatics, ‘just’ a scrape that involved exposed bone, or a stray dog that was unsuccessfully attempting to masquerade as a particularly lumpy stack of clothing. “That is, not exactly. I mean, no.”

“What work were you employed in before this position?” this was on the list of questions, but was asked at this juncture mainly out of morbid curiosity.

“Uh, moving?” Mr. Harding repeated his ear movement from before. “We moved goods, things, you know, stuff. I’ve got an eye for it,” he boasted, jerking a thumb towards the case of plate. “This would move real easy.”

“I see,” which was not so much a lie as an understatement. Batman had recently placed Penguin back behind bars. That would undoubtedly have caused a certain spate of unemployment among his minions. “Unfortunately, that is not the skill set that we require at the moment. My employer, however, is always anxious to help out the fine citizens of Gotham.” Also to keep said fine citizens from returning to a life of crime. “Might I recommend a different staffing agency that might be more suited to your talents?” Alfred removed one of Gotham City Staffing’s cards from his breast pocket and offered it to the man. Ms. Wimbleson could be counted upon to find an honest job for a ‘moving’ man that did not require much in the way of past employment history or employer recommendations.

The criminal element never seemed to run into staffing problems, but if even a few of the former hench-people failed to return, Alfred liked to think that it could cause perhaps a minor inconvenience. Perhaps the Penguin would have to conduct his own staff interviews. He savored that mental image, standing to escort Mr. Harding back out of the manor. 

“Yes, that piece has been in the family quite a while,” he said, in response to a question regarding the Renoir near the hall entrance. “Back in the days when security was limited to the security personnel making regular, untimed sweeps through the halls, guard dogs roaming the manor grounds, and cutting-edge foot-sensitive flooring. Nowadays, of course,” he graced the now-nervous looking man with a smile containing quite a sharp edge, “our protections are much more sophisticated,” he paused, considered, and added, “And lethal.” 

He did hate to be blunt, but it was uncertain if Mr. Harding would grasp the implied threat otherwise. The poor man was clearly not one the Penguin had kept on for aiding in the planning of his schemes. Actually, given the poor outcome of his last few schemes, Alfred considered as he shut the door firmly behind the stammering Mr. Harding and his security escort, maybe he had been the brains behind the operation. 

It was so hard to find good help these days.

* * *

**ii. House Management: 8 Weeks Out**

_Includes setting of routines and schedules, household hierarchy, defining and setting standards, purchasing._

The life of a Bat, or those Bat-adjacent, was not a predictable one. 

There were times when even criminals took the night off and everyone tumbled back into the Cave off patrol unbloodied, a peaceful night sailing smoothly into the next day. Then others, when major operations strung out from dusk into the earliest of morning hours as Alfred waited by the transceiver counting off responses and praying that the dawn would come for every Wayne. The balance, of course, lay in the middle – a hard fight down at the docks for one patrol, with quietude uptown, and progress towards finding the head of a new pickpocketing scheme on the Row. Not calm, not panicked, but the steady work his vigilantes had pledged themselves to endure for the sake of Gotham and her residents.

In the midst of all this chaos, Alfred adhered to a morning routine when at all possible. Holding to one certainty gave him a cadence to his days that the tumult might otherwise lack, and he felt the loss of days when expediency forced him to skip it. As Dick would call before he disappeared into Bruce’s oversized bathtub for several hours to emerge wrinkled and wafting sandalwood in his wake, it was ‘important to take time for self-care.’

This would be an easier task, if Jason would stop purloining all of his Assam.

Alfred sighed, accepting that his old hiding place behind the coffee beans had been discovered at last. Turning to the pantry, he reached over the selection of olive oil and brought out a canister. Gently tilting it from side to side, he was relieved to hear the gentle shuck of leaves falling against the ceramic. His morning could yet be salvaged.

As the kettle hesitantly began to whistle, he carefully measured spoonfuls of leaves out, one per cup and one for the teapot, a familiar rhythm. Filling the pot with water, he set the lid in place and draped a towel over it, leaving it to steep. The tea canister, he carefully returned behind the oils and added a note to his mental checklist that he should determine a new secondary hiding place.

At his place at the kitchen table, carefully selected to provide the best view to watch the unfurling sunrise through the windows as well as any stragglers attempting to scale the lowest portion of the wall to sneak back into their beds, Alfred set out a cup and saucer, sugar bowl, and pot of cream next to his morning edition of the Gotham Times and the pad of paper ready for drawing up the daily schedule.

Tim routinely lamented Alfred’s continuing reliance on ‘wood pulp’ when he could have a digital download of the same paper, along with its competitors and breaking news, at the tap of a button, but he had standards that would not be swayed. He liked the option of cutting out a recipe clipping that Damian might enjoy to widen the vegetarian options of the chef, or add to the list of cases that the Wayne Foundation might take up. Plus, it was useful to have a record of recently released criminals or up and coming villains who might make life harder or attempt to kidnap one of the Waynes, particularly with the upcoming gala providing such a golden opportunity. Such sundry, ordinary tasks had no need for electronics and, besides, he couldn’t mark up an electronic copy.

A precise five minutes later, Alfred poured a cup of tea at the table, steam curling into the chill of the early morning. The first cup he always drank plain, allowing the heat and shock of the tannins to envelop his mind. Time enough with the second cup to indulge in cream and sugar. Breathing out a satisfied sigh as warmth unfurled through his veins, he shook the paper open and frowned slightly at the front page story. Pure sensationalism about LexCorp developing a new type of metal shielding – ‘Steel To Surpass the Man of Steel?’. Still, he would make a note of it as far as it could concern Wayne Tech. If nothing else, Bruce would enjoy the opportunity to tease Mr. Kent about the headline.

As he took another sip of tea, a thud rang out overhead. 

“Todd,” a voice called, sleep thick and hoarse. “If that’s my toothbrush then vengeance will be swift.”

The response was garbled and faint, but the sound of running footsteps overhead made the probable answer fairly clear. The subsequent yelling was interspersed with the sound of doors swinging open.

The sun rose higher to bathe the back wall of the kitchen golden, a new day began at Wayne Manor, and Alfred turned to the second page of his paper.

* * *

**iii Table Management: 7 Weeks Out**

_Includes setting tables and serving meals, serving skills, styles of service, table manners, wines and champagnes, cigars, creating menus, special celebrations._

It was a contrast, Alfred noted to himself, somewhere far back in the part of his mind not currently tracking whether anyone was neglecting their vegetables. His forenoon had been spent hip-deep in the intricacies of such detailed table seating arrangements as could only be required when bringing together multiple wealthy people with too much time on their hands and a need to always be the most important person in the room. His efforts were as those of a general formulating plans to outlast the Siege of Petty Comments and Entitled Demands, such as the wait staff changing their seat because don’t you know who I am? Someone who can choose to either sit with a publishing mogul and an heiress with a makeup line, or mince their way back to their car and on their way home, is what Alfred cannot say. As a balm for his soul, he does his utmost to convey this sentiment with a judgmental Look when the beleaguered staff report back to him.

Tonight, on the other hand, Alfred is instead combating the Siege of Bottomless Pits and utilizing said Look to quell any potential revivals of the Poor Table Manners Skirmishes held in several of the participant’s youths. He had cut the possibility of that becoming a siege off at the pass years ago and had no intention of reviewing archived footage of those battles.

“Hey, did,” Jason wilted ever so slightly and swallowed a painfully large-looking mouthful, before continuing. “Did I see a woman being marched off of the grounds earlier? Your security gotten that bad with these guys keeping watch?” He motioned across the table where Tim and Damian sat uncomfortably side by side. They had been the last to arrive and watching them suffer was considered great entertainment by the rest of the family.

It had been a remarkably peaceful dinner thus far, aside from the usual chaos of seven Bats vying for full plates. Now that inroads had been made into the meal, it was probably too much to hope for that truce to last.

Before Damian could rise to the bait, as he never failed to do, Alfred injected, “Just a precaution after an interview for the gala. I did not anticipate anyone being in a position to observe her escort, or I would have recommended the back path around the side of the manor.”

The interview had been both shorter and less successful than the last. Ms. Darla Miers had not even made it to the back parlor before attempting to pocket a small jade statuette. Alfred had relieved both her coat of the statue and the manor of her presence with prejudice, where prejudice translated to frog marching a potential employee out of the door and assuring her that security would track every step she took down the driveway and back through the front gates.

Damian piped up, “Obviously it was under control, Todd. Not all of us are at the level of hiring criminals.”

“How is the gala coming?” Stephanie interrupted, sensing violence on the horizon and clearly concerned about not making it to dessert. She had snuck into the kitchen earlier and been ushered away from the brownie sundae preparations with great reluctance. “What’s on the menu? Not those little eggy things again, I hope.”

“Those are quiches,” Dick told her, fork poised over his roast beef and a look of despair crossing his face, “and they are amazing. There’s ones with cheese and bacon, Steph. You can’t take those away from me. It’s how I make it through the night.”

“Speaking of the gala,” Bruce rumbled from the head of the table, saving Dick from whatever rebuttal required Stephanie to point at him decisively with her butter knife, “I assume that you all know the date, and are making arrangements to attend.” It was not framed as a question.

Silence reigned.

“I’m certain it isn’t necessary,” Bruce continued, sipping from his wine glass and studiously ignoring every single one of his children exchanging desperate glances across the table, “but I should remind you that attendance is mandatory. You cannot get out of it with rumors of criminal activity being conducted at coincidentally the exact same time as the start of the gala, illness unless verified by Dr. Thompkins and with a week’s stay at the manor with no patrolling, too much work that you just happen to remember three hours before the event,” he inhaled and carried on, “exhaustion from having refused to go to sleep the previous four days and thinking that would win anyone over, hiding in the belief that a family comprised entirely of detectives cannot hunt you down, or sending word that you have been kidnapped, imprisoned, or killed. Again.”

Cassandra coughed into her hand.

“If I have forgotten to list anything, rest assured that I have not forgotten the incident.” He swept the length of the table with a meaningful look.

Alfred decided that it was probably as perfect a moment as any to add the nail to their collective coffins. “Master Bruce, I’m certain that no one will put the effort that has gone into the gala to waste or threaten the welfare of the charities it supports.” Tim almost slumped into his seat and Damian was glaring at his glass as though he could cause it to spontaneously shatter. Success. “Shall we have dessert?”

“Score!” Stephanie thrust her spoon into the air. “Hey, will there be ice cream at the gala?”

The aura of judgement from two sides of the table was almost audible.

“What?” she asked the bevy of looks being cast her way. “Some of us have priorities.”

* * *

**iv. Valeting Skills: 6 Weeks Out**

_Examines the professional Gentleman's Gentleman, and includes dress codes, formal wear, purchasing and care of bespoke clothing and shoes, maintaining inventories, packing and unpacking suitcases._

Despite what all good sense to the contrary might indicate, Alfred found reviewing and updating the account and inventory books quite soothing. While it did involve rehashing the day prior, including any tumult, injuries, and accidents, it also provided perspective upon the day as a whole – or even the week or month, when he closed out accounts for the period. Additionally, although this should perhaps be viewed as a detriment, it gave him a sense of control. He might not be able to dodge a knife, track a suspect, or complete a science project _for_ any of his assorted charges, but he could lay in supplies of bandages, power bars, and baking soda to assist in the endeavors.

This particular Monday afternoon, Alfred strove to catch up on the books after a busy weekend round of parties, appearances, benefits, banquets, and crime sprees for the family. As usual, the to-do list at his elbow grew apace with his inventory notes. The bushes along the back line of the property needed tending after someone (Jason) fell into one trying to sneak back over the wall with an armload of ‘borrowed’ books. The kitchen was running low on flour at a faster than usual rate due to a spate of enthusiastic paper-mache creations, as apparently test volcanoes are required to ensure that the final product is suitably impressive, or so he had since been informed by Dick, Cass, and Damian. The final ‘test’ brought Bruce down upon their heads as it involved some of the Bat-supplies. This fact was hotly debated, but as the alternative was that baking soda and vinegar had someone managed to carve a crater into the ceiling and melt an entire tabletop, a new project involving plants had been rigorously substituted. 

Bruce also desperately needed a new suit for the gala, and there was no time to waste given the tailor’s schedule. A week ago this wasn’t a pressing issue. A suit had recently been made up for the summer rounds and would serve well for the gala. Less than a week ago, however, there had been what Bruce was choosing to refer to as an ‘unfortunate accident,’ Tim was calling ‘something everyone is blowing way out of proportion,’ Jason had dubbed the ‘latest dance craze,’ and most of the other Bats had already perfected in pantomime. Alfred had christened it, ‘Master Tim’s 2AM Case-breaking Revelation and Simultaneous Loss of the Coordination Necessary to be Entrusted with the Abominable Substance He Had Created and Nicknamed Five Hour Red Coffee and Which Alfred Had Banned From the Premises Upon Pain of His Extreme Disappointment.’ What it lacked in brevity, it made up for in clarity.

In an entirely related matter, Alfred also needed to remind the staff to air out the ballroom this week and next, the cleaners to take extra care with the first-floor study carpet at the back of the manor on Tuesday, and himself to make a sweep of the premises for contraband energy drinks. He was tempted to also dispose of all coffee in the Manor; his hand was stayed solely because Bruce would undoubtedly raise an objection, and it possibly verged on a breach of the Geneva Convention, given Tim’s caffeine addiction and the subsequent withdrawal that would ensue. However, there was nothing that said he couldn’t heavily intimate that such an action might be taken should any Red Bull find its way past the front gates again.

The kitchen accounts reminded him that a choice needed to be made soon regarding the catering for the gala. Their usual caterer was temporarily shut down, pending the treatment of most of the staff for either illnesses stemming from Fear Gas, or trauma stemming from Scarecrow directly. Alfred made an additional note to check up on the status of the Gilcrests, as it was their mid-summer fête that had ended so disastrously. Although they really should have known that any type of masquerade party would prove irresistible to the Gotham criminal element’s flair for the dramatic. The real surprise was that it had been Scarecrow, and not the Penguin. Cobblepot did love a guessing game.

A third note was added to check the fumigation system prior to the gala.

With a sigh, Alfred reached to check the date book. Thinking of the gala meant thinking of the staffing interviews yet to finish. It seemed to take five interviews to fill one position, which weren’t terribly good odds no matter how he looked at it. What he wouldn’t give to be able to delegate them. Mr. Dremont’s official resignation had come last week, however, and he couldn’t burden any of the rest of the staff with the tedious, yet vital, chore. Meticulously filtering out the corporate spies, the criminal spies, the media spies, and the utterly incompetent was a delicate business. Today, as double-checked, was blessedly interview free and he could have sworn that even the light in his office perceptively brightened at the reminder.

Smiling slightly, he pulled the next book open. Ah, medical. He frowned over a crumpled invoice.

_Note: Ask Master Dick what precisely is the correlation between the use of an entire kit’s worth of bandages, a rabies screening, and the remark ‘All my Gothamites, this was NOT the best seat.’_

* * *

**v. Communication: 5 Weeks Out**

_Includes cultural differences, interpersonal skills, body language, remembering names and making conversation, telephone manners, presentation skills._

On certain days, Cassandra preferred to save her words as a last resort. Alfred has never found this particularly hard to understand. With all the cheerful chaos the manor usually exists within, a moment of tranquility was a thing to be treasured. He had also never found her difficult to understand – she was quite eloquent without words, particularly in her inventive uses of eyebrows as communication devices.

This did not mean that he could not pretend to misunderstand her pointedly raised eyebrow when she met him at the base of the main staircase as he set out to complete his final rounds of the evening. Or morning, as it was in that nebulous time that lay between those two extremes.

“Your patrol was successful?” he inquired politely, as she noiselessly shadowed him up the stairs. A hand tapped him joyfully on the shoulder. “I’m glad. Perhaps another bout with the psychiatrists at Arkham will do Dr. Quinzel some good, poor girl.”

The silence took a slightly melancholy tone and she took a hop-skip to stand beside him as they reached the second floor corridor, sliding her arm through his. Alfred patted her hand. “We can only provide her with the opportunity to heal; we cannot force her to change, or magically take her pain away.” He paused, considering Zatanna. “That I know of,” he amended.

Her head leaned against his arm for a moment, then she slipped away, bouncing down the hall ahead of him, zipping into three rooms to his one in order to check the state, windows, and security system. At the end of the corridor, moving to take the old, secreted servant’s stair at the end of the wing to the next floor, she swung around to face him again, raising her eyebrow once more.

Alfred sighed. There was probably no way out of this.

“I see Miss Brown has been speaking with you?” he asked, and she kindly let him pass her into the stairwell with only a wide grin. “Today’s interview was most unsatisfactory,” he admitted, voice echoing slightly in the narrow passage, “but I used only the most standard interviewing techniques.” The silence narrowed its eyes at him, skeptical. “Mr. Menkins' conscience simply got the better of him, I believe.”

-

Mr. Thomas Menkins had made it to the parlor, but the interview went south on approximately question five. This was the point where Alfred was entirely distracted by a pair of feet dangling above the open doorway into the hall.

“Hm, please elaborate,” he said distractedly with the small bit of his consciousness not derailed by trying to identify the owner of said feet and how they were midair.

They were too small to be Dick or Jason, and probably not Tim. Barbara had too much dignity, and if it were to be Cassandra, then Alfred would never have known about it. Which left either Damian or Stephanie.

The tone of the voice across from him was growing nervous and questioning, “How interesting,” he inserted blandly, “do continue.”

There was no ledge above that door. Was this another accident involving Bruce’s continual reinvention of the Bat-glue? A substance which he maintained should be kept locked up after the last series of pranks led to three Bats gluing themselves to each other, four phones, one laptop, two grapples, a katana, and the Batmobile. Simultaneously. The tips of his fingers grew cold. Surely not the start of a new prank war. The carpets were still recovering from the last onslaught. There was supposed to be a cessation of hostilities until it was discovered who had managed to lock everyone out of the manor for six hours while it was snowing.

As far as Alfred knew the culprit had yet to be discovered, and he intended on keeping it that way. Besides, he had ensured that everyone was suitably dressed for a day in the weather.

“Yes, quite,” he stated, hopefully at a reasonable moment in the conversation.

He returned to the matter at hand. Provided they managed to stay out of the way and quiet for the duration of the interview, Alfred could track down the ways and means later. If it wasn’t a prank or another attempt to sneak contraband energy drinks to Tim, then it was most likely harmless enough to pass without his interference. He could always refer to it obliquely at a family dinner later and watch everyone attempt to act innocent. That was always entertaining.

“I’m sorry. Truly sorry.” Alfred wrenched his attention back to the interview, which no longer seemed to be following the typical cadence.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, confused.

“I don’t even know how you know, but I can’t take this pressure. The silence, the interrogation, it’s just not worth it. I don’t really want to report back to LexCorp, but I have to eat, you know? And after the slip up with switching out the books for the audit, and the total mess at the docks with customs, this just seemed like my last chance,” Mr. Menkins got to his feet and began pacing before Alfred’s bewildered gaze.

“How do you all keep up with this intrigue? You knew,” he threw a hand vaguely back towards the seating area, “You just already knew and sat there staring through me just waiting for me to make a mistake. Fine, you win! I can’t take this. I should have gone into banking like my mother wanted. ‘If you have to be a crook,’ she told me, ‘at least be a standard one.’ Well, she was right and this is me getting out. I can admit when I’m beaten.” Throwing his hands in the air one more time, Mr. Menkins stalked past Alfred, through the doorway under the still dangling feet, and his footsteps echoed down the hallway until abruptly ending with the slam of the front door.

Alfred contemplated the half-full tea cups sitting abandoned on the table before him.

“Wow,” a voice piped up. He looked up to see a face hanging upside-down between the feet in the doorway. “How did you get him to break like that? That was wicked, Alfred. Total win.”

He allowed himself a sip of tea. Not cold yet, that was something.

“Good afternoon, Mistress Stephanie. What brings you to ‘hang’ around the manor today?”

The face groaned and disappeared back towards the ceiling.

He sipped again, hiding his smirk.

-

“I have asked Miss Barbara, of course, if she can find any information on LexCorp’s involvement,” Alfred said as they began a review of the third floor. “I believe it to be simply petty corporate espionage. Not, shall we say, a family matter.”

Mistress Cassandra’s slanted look towards him sideways stated firmly that she would make her own decision on that point. He smiled fondly and she scooted past him into the next room. He could almost feel sorry for Mr. Menkins, LexCorp, and the undoubtedly unpleasant week they were about to have.

Almost.

* * *

**vi. Cooking: 4 Weeks Out**

_Includes balancing food and wine, menu planning and record keeping, hygiene, speed-cuisine, quality control, the Chef's night off._

“Okay, you might have a point about everyone being kinda nervous around smoke-filled foods after the Gilcrests’ bash, but how about these? Just look at how classy they are!”

Alfred moved his head back to an appropriate distance in which to view the small cell phone screen.

“It appears to be chicken on a stick.”

“Yeah, but a _classy_ version. See it’s spiral-y and you _know_ it’s gotta be free-range and organic. I bet the sticks are even bamboo or something. Sorry, ‘serving skewers.’” Stephanie turned the phone back around and frowned at the tiny picture.

“I am hesitant to arm any of the guests, the boys, or yourself, Mistress Stephanie,” Alfred explained.

“I doubt we could do that much damage with bamboo sticks,” she objected. Alfred raised one eyebrow pointedly. “Yeah, fair,” she sighed. “Hey, what about Barbara? She would definitely eat fancy chicken on a stick.”

“I trust Miss Gordon also knows the meaning of the words ‘appropriate force,’” he answered, turning back to the task of menu-planning that had been steadily interrupted with fervent recommendations over the past twenty minutes.

“Hmm.”

“Perhaps it’s best not to discover whether I am correct by removing the possibility.” He automatically checked the option for bacon-wrapped shrimp. The line between a good party and a great one could hinge on the canapés. Despite Stephanie’s enthusiastic support of such nouveau-riche embellishments as tater tots with unbearably pretentious dipping sauces, mysterious foodstuffs that released smoke, and chicken on a stick, Alfred knew better. Bacon-wrapped shrimp and ridiculously tiny versions of desserts won every time.

It had taken longer than he preferred to track down an alternative caterer. He wasn’t sure what, precisely, villains had against food services over the last few months, but it was past time for them to turn their attention somewhere else. Personally, he would recommend they begin infighting and give everyone a break for a few weeks, but sadly, the criminal element so rarely paid heed to his suggestions.

Mx. Lucy Verdeau, his contact at the Gotham Tea Emporium, had given him all the details at their meeting late last week. Of the five largest and most well-known catering companies in Gotham: two had suffered from attacks at events, one had been bought out and was undergoing ‘restructuring,’ one was embroiled in a legal battle concerning toxic fried mushrooms, and the last had their facility outright firebombed in the middle of a turf war.

“The other companies,” they concluded, over a sampling of recently sourced single-origin black teas, “are trying to pick up the slack, but it’s a struggle. They had their own schedules already booked, of course, plus these are typically larger events than they usually plan. Silver Leaf Catering, for example, provides the most exquisite afternoon garden parties for the socialite set, but they just aren’t equipped to handle galas and balls.”

“I see,” Alfred paused for a moment to savor a mouthful of a particularly smoky lapsang. If they were telling him that he needed to try a different avenue for his catering dilemma, then he would have to accept this fact and move forward. Gotham Tea Emporium was the go-to source for teas for the majority of businesses in the area, and was tied into details of the industry landscape beyond his knowledge.

In the end, Mx. Verdeau had been able to provide him with a list of potentially suitable caterers who might have room on the books, or be willing to _make_ room for a Wayne Gala. It had been a distressingly short list, made shorter when further inquiries revealed that several were already over-booked and two others had questionable hiring methods. Still, in the end, the fruits of his labor were quite satisfactory: a relatively new company with references for smaller events from two other well-established families in the area, who were willing to work in conjunction with the Manor staff to fill in any gaps created by their size. It wasn’t ideal, but Alfred had worked with less before. Besides, their hiring process stopped just short of polygraph screenings, which was heartening indeed given his recent interview misadventures.

“Okay, you can’t possibly have an objection to this one,” Steph interrupted his musings. “It’s got an actual vegetable in it.”

He squinted again at the green and brown picture. “Bacon-wrapped...Brussels sprouts?”

“All the rage these days – in a very classy, elegant way, I mean.”

Alfred opened his mouth to politely decline, then reconsidered.

“One condition.”

Stephanie sat up straight, then leaned forward, eyes alert. “Name it.”

“Master Dick is a devotee of bacon, as I am certain you are aware,” he began.

She nodded, “Only person I know who actually posts glamour shots of bacon on his Insta, yeah.”

“I would most appreciate a snapshot of him sampling this canapé at the gala, if you would be so kind.” When Stephanie looked puzzled, he continued, “It may be my only opportunity to see him consume a vegetable all night.”

“Got it,” she gave an exaggerated wink. “Should I not, perhaps, tell him about said vegetable until after the pic?”

“That might be for the best,” he admitted. “It could ruin the authenticity of the moment.”

As Stephanie bounced away, goal achieved and mission in mind, Alfred permitted himself to smirk at the catering lists. If she could guarantee a picture of Dick’s betrayed face as he bit into what he had, in all seriousness, named as The Ultimate Nemesis of Robin at the age of ten, the inclusion in the gala of the latest ‘fad food’ would be well worth it.

* * *

**vii. Etiquette & Protocol: 3 Weeks Out**

_Includes addressing persons of different cultures and titled persons, acquiring social confidence, social and business correspondence, common-sense good manners and consideration for others, personal norms and values._

Normally, Alfred despised being roused from letter-writing before he had completed his task, down to addressing, stamping, and setting it aside for the post. It was so difficult to pick up where one left off, in both tone and thought. This letter, however, was one that he would be glad to put off for, say, four weeks – at which point it would no longer be needed.

The gala invitations had gone out the week prior and gossip had already spread from those who would insist they were too well-bred to gossip about who was invited and who was not. There were two methods of dealing with being left out of a party. One method, taken by civilized members of society, was to accept the blow to your ego, feel hurt and betrayed, then accept it and move on with life. (Plotting schemes of vengeance late at night, lying in bed, and imagining a world where they are someone’s only hope for something-or-other is a side option also chosen by some. Particularly when said individuals can play it over and over to choose either to deny the party-giver and watch them suffer, or fulfill the need and watch them overflow with remorse that they’ve ever done the dreamer the slightest wrong, particularly that time they mistakenly forgot an invitation to that dreadful party that was the worst event of the season.)

The other response, based on what Alfred has witnessed, was to write an overly voluble letter to said party host assuring them that, while their letter has been tragically lost in the mail system, they will be certain to make an appearance as they know to do otherwise would bring crushing disappointment to the party as a whole and to the party host in particular.

Invitations rarely get lost in the mail.

Additionally, at Wayne galas, no one is left off a guest list accidentally.

Sentences in combination that leave Alfred frowning over a sheet of letterhead, attempting to con the perfect phrasing to let the would-be guests down as gently as possibly. Probably more gently than they deserve, given Alfred has full knowledge that this particular couple are lynch pins in the shadier side of Gotham activities. By the time of the gala, they will probably have exchanged white tie attire for orange jumpsuits and waltzing for trash collection along the highway, so it seems slightly mean-spirited to get their hopes too high.

In any case, he is grateful to the clock for tinging a gentle reminder that he has yet another interview this afternoon and had best begin making preparations. His general experiences with interviews have not risen from the Bat-cave depths of the first, but he has higher hopes for this one.

Ms. Marjorie Stockton, according to Oracle’s report, was an experienced lower-level manager with LexCorp, known for her efficiency, no-nonsense attitude, and employee initiatives. Despite an impressive string of successes, however, she had been passed over for promotion on at least three occasions. Oracle suspected it was due to her commitment to her children, one of whom was an active eight year old and the other a gravely ill six year old, currently shortlisted for a kidney transplant. One commitment had never made her less skilled or able at the other, but in the corporate world that never seemed to matter much. 

Ms. Marjorie Stockton was also currently sitting across from Alfred, sipping a pleasant cup of Assam, and earnestly interviewing for a position as a temporary bar back.

Alfred gently replaced his cup in his saucer.

“Ms. Stockton,” he began politely, “I realize that you came today to interview for a temporary role at the Wayne gala.” She nodded in agreement and waited for him to continue. “However, I would like to take a moment and ask if you would consider a full time position on the staff.”

To her credit, she blinked, but did not hesitate.

“I would definitely be interested in hearing about the opportunity,” she answered with a pleasant smile. “Are you searching for longer term kitchen staff?”

“No,” Alfred corrected, leaning back to ensure he had a good view of her face. “I am actually hoping to find an under-butler to assist in the running of the entire Wayne estate.”

This time she didn’t blink, but her eyes grew so wide they seemed about to recede into her hairline.

“That’s quite a different job,” she managed, weakly.

“Hm, yes,” he produced a portfolio and delicately perched his reading glasses on his nose. “Yet not so very different from your current position, I do believe.”

“My current position as a dishwasher?” Alfred could understand the notes about accounting feats in her file now – he would be reluctant to price gouge that shrewd look facing him as well.

“No,” he admitted, “your current position as a project manager with LexCorp. Your track record speaks well of your abilities to manage employees and coordinate events and schedules, as well as a frankly brilliant series of budgetary endeavors. All of which would be valuable assets with the Wayne family.”

“Mr. Pennyworth,” she straightened in her chair, setting her cup firmly back onto the table.

“Assets that would be well rewarded,” he continued blithely. “All staff are ensured a mandatory four weeks of vacation per year, unlimited sick time for both themselves and for care of their dependents, a competitive benefits package directly associated with Wayne Healthcare, and salary commensurate with their expertise and position. I know it’s not the position you applied for,” he finished before she could cut him off, “but it is a genuine offer. The Wayne family seeks the best employees, no matter how they come to us,” he gently motioned towards her fake resume laying between them, “and we believe in rewarding those with exceptional skills. To be perfectly blunt, madam, you have exceptional skills, and they deserve better acknowledgement.”

This time Alfred let the silence stretch out between them as Ms. Stockton looked him over, expecting that the brilliant mind across from him was accepting that the game was up, ticking over her options at the clearly short-sighted LexCorp, and starting to seriously consider a future as a double agent. After a moment, she swallowed hard and glanced down at her hands.

“I’ll need to hear an outline of the responsibilities of the position,” she stated, looking back up at him with a steady gaze and clear eyes, “as well as review the formal offer.”

“Of course, madam,” Alfred smiled back at her, well satisfied. “I would expect nothing less.”

He already had the perfect first assignment in mind for her: the Wayne Gala staffing situation. Interviews could tell you so much about a person.

* * *

**viii. Pets: 2 Weeks Out**

_Includes responsible animal care, animal welfare, pets behavioral needs, dogs and cats grooming, etc._

“Absolutely not,” Alfred pitched his voice to carry throughout the general vicinity as he checked his blueprint of the ballroom layout against the seating chart and the mock setup laid out in front of him.

“Sorry?” one of the caterers queried, stopping mid-motion in his activity to capture the final layout.

“Not you, of course, Mr. Torres,” Alfred looked up to smile at him, then directed his glare out toward the corridor where he heard a set of footsteps begin to resume their creeping towards the stairs. “If you’ll excuse me for one moment.”

Alfred stepped into the hallway and found the expected miscreant attempting to sidle down the hallway.

“Master Damian?” Damian froze, before slowly turning around.

As he faced Alfred, he attempted to look innocent. It wasn’t a look he wore well. After a moment, he gave up and returned to arrogance, which he was familiar with and pulled off better. “Is something the matter, Pennyworth?”

“As you may recall, Master Damian, I was present at the last conversation you had with your father concerning the addition of more pets to this household.” In actuality, ‘conversation’ was perhaps not the precise term for it. ‘Ultimatum’ might have been closer to the mark.

“Your point?” Damian ground out.

“That whatever is in your hoodie, occasionally chittering, had best find a home outside of this house. Preferably now,” Alfred glanced down to where the boy was attempting to hide his front behind his oversized backpack.

Caught out, Damian scowled before dropping the backpack to plunge his hands into his hoodie and pull out something whose initial categorization was in the realm of ‘fuzzy tube sock.’

“You should have seen the cage that those - _barbarians_ were keeping her in. Barely enough space for her to turn around. And if they fed her at all,” he began a passionate plea.

“Yes, rescuing her was clearly the right thing to do,” Alfred cut in. Praise for humane actions still had the ability to stop Damian cold in his tracks, something he tried not to think about for too long. The acquisitions staff were still trying to find a replacement for the matching vase in the front parlor. In any case, Damian’s animal rescue acts were generally positive, he just needed to reach a better resolution to the situation than ‘so I’ll adopt them instead.’

It was a conclusion that Waynes defaulted to with alarming frequency. Bruce’s habits had worn off on his children in more ways than just a penchant for dressing up like various animals and clubbing erstwhile villains over the head. Bruce couldn’t figure out where that impulse came from. There were times Alfred would dearly love to cradle Bruce’s face gently in his hands, look deep into his eyes, and with sheer power of will force some self-reflection through that skull. Unfortunately, he had to content himself with stating, in his driest tone, “I simply can’t imagine where they got the idea to solve every problem by adding another member to the household, sir.” 

Really, Alfred should have seen the writing on the wall the first time Dick turned up with a puppy after patrol and Bruce had only shrugged and said, “It’s just a stray dog for one night until the vet opens.”

“Having saved her,” Alfred resumed, “you had best contact that animal welfare group. The one over on Cherry Street that Wayne Industries has partnered with for animal rescue activities in Gotham? I believe that you have helped Master Bruce with their efforts previously.” If one could broadly interpret ‘helped’ as ‘attempted to micromanage every detail.’

“Well, yes,” Damian slowly admitted, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Then this seems like a perfect opportunity to do a spot inspection. You can take your new acquaintance and see her through the process of checkup and admittance,” he came down hard on the last word. He was not prepared to send Damian off to blithely get her a clean bill of health and then show up with her in tow again this evening.

“Tt, they had better be sticking to the procedures that were agreed upon,” Damian stated, gently maneuvering the ferret back inside his hoodie and picking up his backpack. “Still, that is an excellent suggestion, Pennyworth. I should ask to see the intake records too,” he mused, half to himself, as he marched back towards the door.

Idly, Alfred wondered how that afternoon was going to go and if he should call ahead to the rescue center with a warning.

“Mr. Pennyworth?” the voice of Mr. Torres recalled him to his own duties.

“My apologies,” he told the man as he re-entered the ball room, “just a bit of household business.”

* * *

**ix. Laundry and Wardrobe Management: 1 Week Out**

_Includes linens and fine fabric care, clothing maintenance, ironing & pressing, dry-cleaning, storing, product knowledge. _

It had been a hard weekend. The truth in that sentence was confirmed by the state of the various pieces of armor heaped around the laundry facilities in the Bat Cave. There were several reasons why the standard laundry service couldn’t handle the Bat gear: security ranking at the top and Jason’s persistent inability to _not_ write his name inside anything that belonged to him somewhere towards the bottom. At times it was difficult to remember those reasons when a good portion of his particular set of vigilantes felt the need to wear capes that drug over absolutely filthy terrain, then insist that it was perfectly fine, Alfred, I only wore it to the docks and it was a quiet night.

This evening, however, he had already dealt with the capes and moved on to the actual armor. Normally, the vigilantes dealt with their own maintenance, to the best of their abilities. When it reached a stage where their best efforts couldn’t make a dent in the destruction, however, it wound up here. With a prayer for intervention by a higher power.

Alfred turned over a gauntlet and pursed his lips, contemplating the difficulty of removing blood-encrusted grime from Not-Kevlar. Not-Kevlar wasn’t the official name of the material, but neither was anything else and one did have to call it something. It was decidedly not Kevlar – Kevlar could only dream of being this sturdy – but Not-Kevlar had been dismissed as ‘boring’ (Dick) and ‘confusing in about half the sentences we’d use it in’ (Bruce). The proposed alternative, Batlar, had been soundly rejected by half of the family for reasons varying from ‘I’m all for brand continuity, but could we not’ (Stephanie) to ‘no’ (Jason). Tim was valiantly holding out for BatSkin, supported by absolutely no one except Barbara whenever she felt like stirring up trouble.

Perhaps it would be best to soak them. A mixture of one part hydrogen peroxide to two parts BatCleaner might have some success. As he retrieved the usual soaking tub and pulled it into the center of the room, it knocked over a small pile of armor to reveal a heap of black and white cloth. Alfred finished moving the tub, set the items to soaking, and then went to investigate.

Retrieved from the floor and spread out across a table, the cloth took shape as a pair of tuxedo trousers, shirt, waistcoat, cummerbund, and tails. He was about to be surprised that the tie wasn’t there as well, when it tumbled out of a trouser pocket. Eyeing the relative size of the jacket, Alfred made an easy guess as to who had managed to ‘lose’ it. Shaking his head, he began hanging the tuxedo up to be delivered to the cleaners.

A respectable effort, but it would still have failed even if the culprit _had_ managed to carry it off. Alfred had contingency plans for wardrobe-related mishaps. For nearly every mishap, actually, but he had faith in the Waynes’ abilities to continually surprise him.

Ms. Stockton had looked almost concerned at his 56-point action plan for the gala, until he reassured her that at least half of them were Wayne-related and wouldn’t be her responsibility. Already, she had become well enough acquainted with the household to nod decisively, murmur good luck, and move on to corralling the temporary staff that she had finally managed to hire.

Tuxedo hung and prepared, Alfred called for a courier to deliver it to the dry cleaners. With any luck he could have it ready to be returned to Dick by the following evening. Humming over a set of shin guards so dented as to resemble the topographic map of a mountain range, he began mentally composing a note to accompany the suit.

_Master Richard,_

_As requested, your tuxedo for the gala has been cleaned and is ready for the event. Next time, it would be of great assistance if you would inform either myself or a member of the staff when you need assistance. Somehow it wound up beneath a pile of gear and I almost missed it. Imagine how terrible the launderers would feel at the inquiries concerning its whereabouts, and the inconvenience of the last minute work necessary to locate it._

_Imagine showing up to the gala wearing Master Jason’s outdated tuxedo._

_I am certain that you will take all proper care to avoid this situation in the future._

_Most sincerely,_

_Alfred Pennyworth_

* * *

**x. Miscellaneous: Gala Night**

_Includes traveling with your employer, flower arranging, relocating the household, chauffeuring techniques, security, character building and much, much more._

So far, the gala was not proceeding quite as planned. Oh, the guests were mingling, conversation was bubbling along, drinks were flowing, and food was beginning to circulate, so all was going swimmingly in the ballroom. There was no part of his plan for the evening, however, that had included being hit over the head and yanked into a back corner of a pantry when Alfred had merely gone to retrieve additional serving trays from storage.

“This isn’t who you were supposed to grab at all,” an unfamiliar voice whined. “Are you blind, he’s way too old.”

“Look, you said, ‘I got him to come your way, grab the next guy in a tuxedo you see.’ This was the next guy in a tuxedo. I grabbed him,” a second voice huffed. “If you said, ‘Grab the next _young_ guy in a tuxedo,’ I wouldn’t have done that. You could’ve just expressed your full instructions in a clear and direct type way.”

“Spare me your advice talk. Didn’t you read my notes?”

Alfred carefully slit one eye open. They appeared to believe the blow had rendered him unconscious, and were furiously arguing at a steadily increasing volume several paces away. The distance didn’t give him a _great_ deal of room to work with, but at least his assailants had chosen the largest of the pantries.

“Your notes? You mean the 50-page brick? No, no I did not. At least I only give you guys my valuable advice ‘cause I want to make the team better. You’re just suppressing your unvoiced desire to be a novelist by shoving it into the middle of our collective work space.”

Carefully, Alfred felt around his near vicinity for anything that could be used as a weapon.

“A novelist, that’s just, that’s just rude and so typical. Those notes were full of good stuff! If you’d actually read it you’d’ve known that our target wasn’t an old guy, for one. Also that it was all nothing but the truth. I’d never make up _facts_. As for your ‘valuable advice,’ you went to one session about ‘Freeing the Inner Self’ and suddenly you’re the Dalai Lama?”

“There was a whole bit on ethics where you ‘rationalized our actions against the backdrop of Gotham societal structures and class immobility.’ Why do I gotta read that to conk a guy over the head? A note is supposed to be short. Fine, you want to be some reporter, don’t they have to write short things? You ever see a fifty-page article in Gotham Daily? Also, shows what you know, it was a whole list of classes, including ‘Changing the Toxic Workplace Culture.’ I’m trying to create an open and judgement-free work environment, Alyssa, not that you all make it easy.”

Alfred assumed that his presence was largely superfluous at this point, opened both eyes, selected a heavy rolling pin from the bottom storage shelf, and began working his way towards the door in slow sliding movements.

“Don’t you give me ‘open and judgement free,’ Darren. You’re the judgey one around here. Also, lots of journalists write books. Where do you think non-fiction comes from?”

“You wanna be a journalist! That’s great. First step to a goal is saying it. Wouldn’t going after that goal give you a greater sense of purpose and fulfillment, Alyssa? I’ll help! The next step is to think about how great getting whatever you want will be and then we gotta plan out how to get there. C’mon, close your eyes and visualize with me.”

Having gained the door, Alfred slowly stood up and moved to open it to make his escape.

Suddenly, the door slammed open of its own accord, accompanied by a yell of “Alfred!”

“Subtle, Dick-head,” a voice growled into the silence afterwards, and the pantry was abruptly full of reluctantly tuxedo-ed muscle bearing a candlestick that Alfred recognized from the hallway off the kitchen, a pocket knife, a serving tray, and a cocktail fork. Clearly Bruce had been more effective than usual at disarming the children. Also, if this was how everyone was repurposing the serving trays, he now understood the unexpected shortage.

“Whoa,” the person Alfred assumed to be Darren held up his own serving tray in front of him, while the other – Alyssa, by default – raised her empty hands. Whoever had been in charge of disarming the staff had also done excellently, it seemed.

“One of the wait staff said she,” Dick pointed with the candlestick, “wasn’t from the pictures of staff that Ms. Stockton made everyone memorize. So we decided to take a look at where he heard her tell Bradley Gilcrest to go – and where Tim had just seen you head towards.”

Marjorie Stockton was a blessing and well worth every single interview, Alfred silently vowed. Also this explained his encounter with the rather confused Mr. Gilcrest, who had simply been trying to find the facilities. It did raise the question of why there was such criminal interest in the Gilcrests, but Alfred decided that could be someone else’s problem for the time being. Someone with less of a headache.

“Look, all we did was take the butler. You can have him back, no harm, no foul, right?” Alyssa attempted an engaging grin.

“Tt,” and apparently the rescue party also included Damian. “Imbeciles as well as criminals. Pennyworth isn’t just the butler, he is _our_ butler.”

“No one hurts Alfred,” a female voice yelled from the hallway. And Stephanie was here as well. How delightful, a family reunion in the pantry.

A scraping sound came from above, and everyone looked up to see Cassandra sliding a carving knife out of its storage sheath and along the top edge of the pantry shelves where she was crouched. “No one,” she whispered firmly.

It was probably time to take charge of the scene before Tim, or worse Bruce, made an appearance. “While I appreciate the intervention,” he stated in a carrying tone as attention automatically swerved towards him, “I don’t believe that threats are necessary at this junction. I’m certain Darren and Alyssa,” he looked at them pointedly, “will come along quietly as security turns them over to the relevant authorities.”

“Um,” Alyssa jumped at another scraping sound from the shelving. “Yeah, we sure will.”

“I feel,” Darren squeaked, “that this is a good time for you guys to take some deep breaths and focus on a sense of self. The inmost, gentle self, whole and unharmed. Completely unharmed.”

There was a pause as the collective Waynes grappled with that prospect.

Jason snorted. “My inmost self is seriously contemplating pinning you to that wall with Dick’s cocktail fork. You really want me to get in touch with him?”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Jay,” a hearty voice interrupted. Alfred sighed. Bruce, just what he needed.

“Wait,” Dick frowned, “Tim was supposed to–”

“Find Bruce and get him down here,” Tim’s voice interjected from where he had squirmed past the apparent herd in the hallway to appear beside Alfred. “Right? Well, here we are!” Satisfied that everyone had an eye on the two backed against the far shelves, Tim turned his scrutiny onto Alfred, “All in one piece?” he asked, lingering on his hairline.

‘Find and retrieve’ must be the new slang for ‘distract and keep away,’ but Alfred was more than familiar with re-labeling a failed mission. For example, he planned to relabel ‘run a smooth gala’ with ‘ensure no one is actively injured on the premises.’

“A few members of our security team should be right behind us, and here they are. Fine response time, it’s appreciated. Kids,” Bruce’s voice grew more distinct as he appeared in the doorway, “why don’t you head back to the party while we get this sorted out. No need to worry, I’m sure Alfred will be just fine.” His tone was jovial, but his eyes stated that this was not a suggestion. The group reluctantly slid out of the pantry, although not without Stephanie forcing her way in long enough to point to her eyes and then back to the two would-be kidnappers. Cassandra took the carving knife with her and backed up Stephanie’s action with a jab of her own and a nod. The boys settled for glaring and not terribly subtle hand motions.

Bruce moved to occupy the abandoned space and rested a hand on Alfred’s shoulder as the security personnel cuffed and led the two away.

“They’re excellent candidates for the rehabilitation program,” Alfred told him, as the echo of their footsteps faded down the hallway. “Hearts weren’t really in it, I have to say.”

“While I’m glad to hear it, I’ve got a few questions for them first,” Bruce muttered, voice shading towards Batman.

“Hm, the interest in the Gilcrests is puzzling,” he agreed.

“That, too,” Bruce’s eyes flickered towards his hairline, as Tim’s had earlier. “Is the first aid kit in the supply cupboard still stocked?”

“It should be, sir. Are you expecting further attacks?” For a moment all he felt was tired, which was not ideal as the gala was still in full swing.

“No, but I want to take a look at the cut on your head,” the pressure to his shoulder increased for a moment, then vanished as Bruce headed out of the pantry and down the hall. Alfred reached up to where his head ached the worst and stared as his hand came away bloody.

“What a nuisance,” he retrieved his pocket handkerchief and wiped his fingers clean. “This will be difficult to hide for the rest of the evening.”

“Not really,” Bruce answered, appearing back in the doorway, kit in hand, “as you’ll be spending it resting.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, sir,” Alfred sniffed as Bruce tore open an alcohol rub. “I’m certainly not leaving Ms. Stockton to handle her first gala alone, particularly not after there’s already been one attack, however poorly orchestrated. I will simply have to borrow some of your press makeup.”

“Alfred,” Bruce sighed, then cut himself off. “I’m not going to win this one.”

“Acceptance of defeat? How very unlike you, sir. But, no, you will not.” Alfred smiled as Bruce clearly bit back some comment and gently laid three butterfly strips over his forehead.

* * *

**Epilogue: The Life of a Butler**

_Includes history and traditions, personal traits, technical skills, personal and professional standards, and service in detail._

“Please let one of us know if you start feeling any of the symptoms of concussion?” Bruce pleaded with Alfred from the side of his mouth as they re-entered the ballroom.

“Of course, Master Bruce. I would never be careless. I plan to delegate as much as possible.” Alfred was moving to occupy a station distant enough from the crush of the gathering to keep curious eyes away from his disguised wound, yet close enough to observe, when a commotion nearby distracted him.

In the brief pocket of stillness following, he heard the distinctive sound of several cell phone pictures being taken before the noise rose again.

Stephanie darted by, pausing briefly to wink conspiratorially at Alfred. “Got the goods,” she whispered, and was gone the next moment.

“Bacon,” there was a faint cry from the direction of the previous disruption, “why have you betrayed me so?”

Altogether, Alfred decided, this might turn out to be one of the most successful galas they had ever hosted.


End file.
